A Nordlander's War in Gallia
by doncaster
Summary: Nordland, a small nation in the north of Europa, is on the edge of crisis. With a resource shortage threatening to plunge the nation into obscurity, or worse, the government of Nordland is forced to take desperate and controversial steps. But did they make the right choice? Will the gamble be worth it? And and how will a Lieutenant Colonel fair in the war that Nordland must fight?
1. A Necessary War?

The port city of Friesia in the nation of Nordland, Europa, 1935. Five days before the Gallian invasion.

Friesia was the southernmost city in all of Nordland, a peninsular nation which protruded from the north coast in the west of Empire controlled Europa. The nation then hooked west through the sea, coming back on itself and ending due north of Namur. This tip was further south than her land based border and it was here that the capitol of Friesia lay. It was a cold and windswept place, but vital to the nation. Not just because it was the capitol but it was also one of the very few ports this nation possessed that did not freeze in the winter, though it came dangerously close. Ships would often put in here on their way to trade with the Empire and it controlled access to the huge natural bay, the size of a small sea that was created by the peninsular. As such it had become a bustling trading town the noise of the people, the constant coming and going, the fine yet warm clothes and similar buildings were all at odds with the hard conditions and harder land.

But this wealth was skin deep, Nordland was a nation with problems and the strategic location of Friesia was about the only thing this icy country had in its favour. Its land made for poor farming and had to be worked exceedingly hard for anything approaching a viable crop, animal life was sparse and wide spread as they also struggled to find food, but perhaps worst of all was the ragnite. Or more accurately the lack of it. In this day and age the lack of ragnite put a huge hamper on industry and military power. But thankfully the finest resource of this nation came to the rescue, her people. Faced with constant adversity the people of Nordland had become both hardy and clever. Ingenuity was what had allowed them to survive thus far and this modern era would be no different. This nation's insignificant ragnite stock had been wisely invested in fuelling small scale, high tech industry. This created enough interest and business to start turning a reliable profit on the balance of trade, allowing the affordable import of ragnite. But even then, their supply was small compared to the Empire, Federation or even Gallia. Her industrial output was still comparatively minor and they would never obtain the necessary ragnite to field the huge panzer armies of the Federation or the Empire. Even Gallian armour readily outnumbered them.

But once again, the stalwart people of this nation would be her saviour. A lack of tanks, even a shortage of horses in days past, had spawned a storied tradition of excellent infantry. Nordland foot soldiers had often been the envy of other nations and across the centuries these brave soldiers had been the primary guarantor of Nordland's continued independence. Nordland infantry had fought various wars of self-defence, and even occasional expansion, across the eons and her foot soldiers had fought off threats from the Federation, the Empire and their predecessor nations. More recently Nordland has been sucked into EWI, pre-emptively attacked by the Empire to stop a suspected Federation assault on the peninsular in an effort to secure the northern seas. The Empire had planned to take the land swiftly, forever denying the Federation the vital port of Friesia. Unfortunately for them Nordland infantry managed to slow the Imperial advance so much, and cause so many men to be committed to the Nordland front that other elements of the war suffered for the Empire. What was worse was that the once neutral Nordland had been forced to side with the Federation, and so Federation shipping was freely allowed to use the one port the Empire had been so desperately trying to deny them. To this very day the Empire associates the Nordland front in EWI with a long and bitter struggle, followed by an icy and lonely grave. Nordland however, remembers it as one of her finest moments of glory. Though they also remember that the glory came at a cost.

Furthermore, Norldand's geography has made it very defensible, though she lacks any real capacity to attack other nations. In more recent times, when even the best soldiers would struggle to fend off modern tanks, her independence owed more to not being worth conquering than anything else. With no ragnite to speak of she simply was not worth the effort and though she would almost certainly have fallen her soldiers would have exacted a high price in blood for every worthless meter.

That was until very, very recently. Nordland had learnt lessons from the brutal conflict of EWI. It had learned valuable tactical lessons by observing the blunders and successes of both itself and her neighbours but it had also noted the birth of three new and exciting technologies. It could not afford to invest in the tanks which had become such a key part of all the other armies of Europa, and whilst it invested in machine guns so did everyone else. But what Nordland chose to favour, was the aeroplane. Nordland may not have invented the concept but it had become its master and her highly efficient ragnite supplemented engines allowed for an effective air force of a reasonable size. These engines lacked the combination of power and durability to drive a battle tank, but a light weight plane, now that it could move.

Almost overnight Nordland had gone from an insignificant northern backwater with only one city worth mentioning, to a notable local player. She was still insignificant compared to the Federation or the Empire. But she was no longer the triviality she had been. None the less, she still had deep problems. Ragnite was still an issue. Though her industry and air force were ragnite efficient they still needed to import the substance. This dependence on ragnite imports was extremely high risk and with a continent as politically unstable as Europa war had long threatened to cut off the supply. Nordland need not even be a belligerent, with Gallia and the Federation being the chief exporters of ragnite all it would take was one big war involving them and that would be it. The exports would stop and Nordland would collapse with it. To guard against this Norldand had been importing far more ragnite than it needed, building up a stock pile but driving up prices with it. Every economist knew this was an unsustainable model and so a daring new secret policy was implemented. Nordland would take any opportunity presented to acquire permanent control of a small base of ragnite mines. This was the only way the nation could survive and now, with EWII under way and a build-up of Imperial forces near the Gallian border, the issue had been forced.

Nordland had long regarded the Empire as its natural enemy. Their shared border made Nordland an obvious target, they had been enemies in EWI and aggressive Imperial expansionism had long threated to swallow Nordland whole. What was more, the majority of Nordland's previous wars had been against the Empire and her predecessors. Nordland's drill, defences and tactics had all been made with an Imperial foe in mind. On the other hand, it had regarded Gallia as a natural friend. They shared a dogged adherence to the concept of neutrality and the two small nations seemed to share an odd bond which had been created by their size. Perhaps more importantly Gallia had long been the chief importer of Nordland's goods and an exporter of ragnite to the semi frozen nation. So an outside observer would have been excused for being surprised when Nordland's government quietly aligned itself with the Empire. This was not a decision made out of ideological sympathy or genuine sentiments, but rather cold, hard calculation. Nordland knew that EWII was their best, and perhaps last, chance to secure a supply of ragnite. Continued neutrality was unsustainable and waging a war as a third party was suicide. It had to choose a side and the Empire offered the best option. The Federation put no real value on Nordland and would certainly be unwilling to give up any currently held ragnite mines on her northern coast to Nordland. Furthermore, her defensive footing made any promises of a share of the Empire's land sound hollow and empty. The Empire however, did not suffer from this problem. Her offer of ragnite mines on the northern coast, either in Gallia itself or further north near Namur, might just come true. The Empire's attack on Gallia was inevitable, and the consensus among the generals was that Gallia would fall quickly. When that happened Nordland would lose her last remaining source of Ragnite, as the Federation had devoted all her ragnite to the war effort long ago. If Nordland did not take this opportunity, it would likely never get another one. Add to this the fact that the Empire was already winning the war against the Federation and she now made for a far more attractive proposition.

Some men may have questioned the wisdom of striking this deal with Nordland's old enemy. One such man was Lieutenant Colonel Jukka Heikki Ylioja, a battalion commander in a comparatively new formation that combined the infantry traditions of Nordland with her pioneering aviation technology. He was part of a new breed of soldiers, a new breed that had been dubbed paratroopers. These units, made of the best men Nordland had to offer, formed a key part of her military strategy and worked in close cooperation with the rest of the airforce. So much so that they were technically part of the airforce, rather than the army. They had become a living symbol of the nation, an embodiment of her spirit, her durability, her ingenuity and her resolve. But as resolute as Jukka was determined to be in the conduct of this war he could not help but doubt the rational. Once the Empire had victory, what was to stop it turning on Nordland and swallowing her whole? Nothing so far as he could see! Had it been another nation he may have relied on honour, but not when it came to the Empire. Doubtless his nation's leaders had thought of this, and yet here they were. Did they know something he did not? Or was the situation truly that desperate?

Well, the dye was cast now and regardless of his personal reservations Jukka would serve his comrades, his nation and his home. There course was his course and he loved his home far too much to abandon it now. Though he may have been standing over a rough wood table, upon which battle plans were laid, his mind was elsewhere. He had spent much of his life in various barracks and camps across Nordland, he was a full time professional soldier and it would not have been an exaggeration to say the unit was his home. But, there was somewhere else he called home as well. Some way north of the capitol, a little way into the woods amongst some gently rolling hills, he had a single room log cabin that he called his own. He could have afforded something more modern, larger, even in a town. He kept telling himself that he was saving the money for when he settled down and started a family. But really he knew it was because he loved that cabin. He knew it's every board and plank. He knew the simple yet luscious beauty of the woods in the summer, it's every stream and grove. And he knew the cold enteral grace of the hauntingly white winters. Life could be hard there, sometimes no amount of blankets and bright fires could keep out the cold. Sometimes the hunting could be bad and a man would go hungry and if he was injured no one would have any idea he was in trouble. But though life was hard, life was good. Out there, the tiny cabin and the vast wilderness were his sanctum. There, life was fulfilling, his mind was somehow clear and his heart felt lighter. He had built that cabin with his own hands and had been raised in a similar homestead. It was as much his home as anywhere else and now he quietly wished he could be there again.

He was interrupted from his ruminations by a smart knock at the door. Jukka already knew who it was. Pausing only to draw out his straight billiard style pipe Jukka casually invited his guest in, whilst simultaneously filling his pipe with tobacco and patting his pockets for a match. The man who walked in through the door was clearly part of the same unit as Jukka. They both wore the same dark blue grey uniforms, which seemed quite standard and unremarkable in their design. The uniforms of Nordland soldiers had never been built for show but they were always smart, they believed the dress code was a key part of discipline. You could see that beneath their jackets, which were slightly open at the neck with lapels in a style similar to a suit or a formal winter coat, that they wore lighter shade of blue grey shirts and plain dark blue ties. Their boots, immaculately polished, were built for function and durability as were their black leather belts. Neither man was currently wearing their hat, hence why there were no salutes or other formalities. The only visible difference between their uniforms was that the Jukka seemed to have slightly more impressive rank badges on his shoulders and lapels and a few more medal ribbons on his chest.

"Good afternoon Erling." Judging by Jukka's casual and familiar tones these two men were quite familiar with one another. "How are the men?" Finding a match Jukka lit up his pipe whilst Erling replied.

"All supplies are loaded, most of the men are aboard. We are scheduled to put to sea in three hours." Erling spoke a little more curtly and sharply than Jukka, but that was just his way. Erling was every inch your stereotype of a strong Nordlander. He was well over six feet tall, muscular, with a chiselled jaw, noble blonde hair and icy blue eyes that seemed as deep as a lake and as sharp as a knife. He was the type of man artists made statues of when they wanted to contemplate the perfect physical beauty of humanity. Had it not been for the uniforms a man would have been forgiven for thinking Erling was the senior officer. Jukka, by comparison, seemed almost disappointingly ordinary. Certainly he was not the fine specimen people thought of when they envisaged a Nordlander. He was far from short, standing at six feet himself, but placed next to the imposing Erling he looked small and scrawny. Certainly he was not so well built. His dark hair, though not the blue black of a Darcsen, was also far from the stereotype and it was only accentuated by his slightly pale skin. A thin, sharp face and a hooked nose which looked as though it had been broken at least once, seemed to complete the look of Lieutenant Colonel Jukka. That was until you saw his eyes. His murky blue eyes were unimpressive at first. But look at them for more than a few moments and you might notice some strange presence beneath, like the rumbling of a furnace. Some say that when Jukka seemed to come alive then his eyes would appear to dance and burn beneath the surface, staring out with the crazed cunning and energy of an arctic fox, the determination and force of a bear. Jukka never put much stock in those stories, and certainly any fire in his eyes now seemed to be little more than embers.

Erling had carefully managed to avoid the question that Jukka was really asking, but Jukka was not about to allow his trusted chief of staff to get away with such evasion.

"Their morale, their spirits, their belief in the mission?" You could tell by his tone that he was not expecting a positive answer. Unlike the last war this was not a simple struggle for national survival against an aggressive foe. This war was not as clear cut. The last war was something everyone could believe in but this fight was morally murky at best and what was worse was the fact Nordland had allied itself with its old enemy. The press and the politicians had been doing their best to invigorate the nation but Jukka was not alone in his uncertainty. Erling's answer therefore surprised the sceptical Lieutenant Colonel.

"Their morale is high sir. They believe that victory will be swift and near certain, in the main they also believe Nordland will be stronger for it. Stories of Gallian and Federation transgressions also seem to be gaining some traction, whether true or not. No one is happy about working so closely with the Empire, but that seems to be viewed as a minor issue by the younger troops." He was largely matter of fact in the way he went about describing things, but you could tell he seemed to be slightly disappointed at the attitude of these younger soldiers. Many of them had been but mere babes during the last war, they did not remember the cruelty of the front and brutality of the fray with the Empire. But then, perhaps that was for the best.

"And the older ones?" Jukka seemed slightly concerned, largely because he was worried about the impact on the spirits of the men. A few grumbling sergeants could tear the heart out of the unit and the best equipment and training in the world could not compensate for a lack of resolve.

"They are smart enough not to talk about it." Jukka gave a quiet little nod of approval to this reply. The older men, many of whom were veterans, seemed to know that the war was unavoidable and had taken it upon themselves to try and keep morale up. There was no point grumbling about working with Imperials, it was a simple matter of fact now. Why risk breeding resentment in the ranks or angering their new allies by digging up the wounds of the past? Still, those wounds were there and ignoring them was, at best, a temporary solution. You could tell from the subdued tones and tired and contemplative expressions of both men that neither one of them quite believed in this new alliance. But outside of select company these doubts and reservations would not be shown. To the world they would be firm, full of determination and conviction, they had to be.

The two men seemed to fall into a moment of silence again, Jukka gently puffing away at his pipe whilst he went over the battle plans once again, Erling staring off into the middle distance with a frown. The silence, though brief, said all that needed to be said. It was broken by Erling, who at last moved onto the very reason why he had come here.

"Colonel, we need to go aboard now. Our transport will be departing shortly. May I?" Erling gestured to the plans and Jukka just nodded, stepping back to allow his chief of staff to gather up the documents and put them in a satchel, ready for transit. Pipe still lodged firmly in his mouth Jukka took his uniform blue overcoat, similarly adorned with rank badges, and his officers visor cap, down from the pegs on which they hung and put them on. Erling however, once the plans were gathered, opened up the door to the office and gestured in two privates who, after saluting the Lieutenant Colonel, began gathering up other bits and bobs for their commander. One was carrying Erling's own coat and hat, which he promptly dressed the man in before gathering up a decryption machine for the journey.

Soon the two officers were away, out of the barracks and proceeding down the streets of Friesia towards the dock. It was not winter, but a chill and ominous wind was blowing. It seemed to get under the men's coats and go straight to their bones. Superstitious men may have regarded this as a bad omen. But on the whole the men of Norldand were rational and practical men, concerned with the real world. To them this was just a chill breeze and nothing more. As they walked along occasional passers-by would stop in the street and wish them well, hope that these men would come home quickly and safe. Jukka always shook the hands of these kindly strangers, with a nod of thanks and a slightly forced smile. But no war was ever quick enough and he had seen far too many men never come home before now. But again, he could not let on that this was how he was thinking and he could hear the privates behind him thanking the well-wishers enthusiastically, and promising to come back soon, their voices full of hope and optimism.

After a few minutes of walking down the cobbled streets Jukka looked over to Erling, with a slight smile and a wistful look in his eye.

"Where's Gunnar? Last I saw of him I think he was seriously considering sleeping in his cockpit." Jukka let out a little chuckle at the thought but, if you knew Gunnar, that was not too much of a stretch. Erling chuckled a little at the idea as well.

"I saw him at the airfield a few days ago, arguing with an engineer about the sensitivity of the controls in his tail rudder. I swear he won't be happy until they build him his fantasy plane from scratch." Again Jukka chuckled along with Erling at the idea, he could see it in his mind's eye now. Gunnar was always picking fights with his ground crew, the man could be difficult to get along with sometimes and the truly annoying thing was that Gunnar was almost always right.

"You mean to tell me Gunnar was at Friesia airbase and you didn't let me know he was in town!" Jukka layered his tones with obvious mock offense but he was slightly annoyed at the missed opportunity. The three men had history but Gunnar was often posted away from the paratroopers, they got to see one another far too little. Erling however, kept smiling and said in slightly amused yet calming tones.

"You will see him soon enough Colonel. He's been posted to the same air base we'll be operating out of. Our engineers finished construction just a few days ago." Jukka just gave a satisfied little sigh and a nod of the head.

"Hopefully he will fly our support missions." Commented the Lieutenant Colonel. "If he does we might just win this one." Both of the officers gave another little laugh, their moods and spirits visibly lifted.

Jukka was still smiling as he arrived at the transport ship and climbed the boarding ramp. The naval crew who saluted him as he came aboard were keen to show him to his quarters and get under way.

"Colonel." Said the young crewman, who then turned to Erling and added. "Major. Allow me to show you to your quarters. The Captain would then like to get under way." It didn't take long for Jukka to be shown to his tiny quarters and to place his bags unceremoniously in the corner. As one of the more senior officers aboard ship he had been granted the luxury of a cabin to himself and though may would have complained about the glorified broom closet he had been put in he appreciated the gesture.

Soon the rumble of engines and a slight shudder of the ship signalled that the vessel was putting to sea. Moving with some speed Juka swiftly made it to a port side walkway, already crammed with paratroopers and sailors alike. He could hear the scene before he got there, cheering, screaming, even the faint sound of a few musical instruments largely drowned out by the noise. As the ship began to move the dock was crammed with civilians, waving, jumping, shouting out either to the soldiers in general or to specific loved ones aboard. The soldiers and sailors, shouting back and waving just as enthusiastically. There was no one in the crowd for Jukka, but he wanted to take the opportunity to take a last lingering look at Nordland, his home. The beautiful city of Friesia and the more beautiful country beyond. Slowly a little smile, simultaneously happy and sorrowful, spread across his face. Taking a moment he looked about him, watching his fellow paratroopers, committing their faces and expressions to memory. This was a moment he would not let himself forget, even should old age eventually befall him. This was a moment he wanted etched in his mind, not because it would necessarily be a happy memory. But because it was his duty to remember. He would stay out on deck for hours, lingering there long after the ship was at sea and his men had returned below decks. Instead he stayed there, ignoring the cold sea winds and the choppy waves. His focus was on one thing, the slowly receding coast of Nordland. He stayed there, unable to look away, unable to tear his mind from the uncertain fate of his homeland. It took Erling, appearing silently at his shoulder, to wrestle Jukka's attention away from the view.

"Sir, dinner is being served." Erling was quiet, and gentle in his interruption. He knew what Jukka was thinking about and he knew how heavily it weighed on Jukka's mind. There was no need for them to speak of it further. With a little forced, but also genuinely grateful, smile Jukka nodded his head and went inside for his meal. But even then he could not quite shake his invisible concerns. He was deeply worried for Nordland.


	2. A New Plan, Old Wounds And An Old Friend

Imperial Staging Base A3, Northern Sector, Near the Gallian border. The day before the invasion.

Jukka was sitting near the front of what had been a school's assembly hall. The whole area had been converted by the Imperials into a huge staging post and the nearest Nordlander airfield was nestled on the north edge of this little rural village, which sat on a key crossroad. Sitting with him were several other Nordland officers. His own chief of staff was absent but with him were twenty six other battalion commanders, nine regimental commanders, three brigade commanders and the divisional commander himself. Not only that but a few Nordland Wing Commanders and Group Captains were also present. They all sat, in a large block, in their trademark blue grey air force uniforms, gently chatting away with one another. They did however, look distinctly out of place as around them was a comparative see of black, Imperial officer, uniforms. There must have been almost two hundred officers in this room, all quite senior. You could almost cut the tension in the hall with a knife. Even the youngest Imperial officer here seemed to slightly resent the presence of the Nordlanders and a few of the older ones had memories of fighting on the Nordland front in the last war. The Nordlanders, for their part, were aware of this hostility but did their best to ignore it. True, they felt like they were about to be jumped but they were not about to show weakness or uncertainty in front of old enemies or new friends. Had matters been left like this for a while longer things might have degenerated into a brawl. But thankfully, events took over.

From one of the side entrances to the assembly hall stage strode a black uniformed figure. Even a peasant could tell he was a general, the gold braid, the cape, the highly decorated belt, the elaborate rank badges, they all gave it away. As he walked upon the stage you could hear the rhythmic clack of his cane aboard the planks and as one man the whole hall rose to its feet. Before the assembled officers stood General Gregor, officer commanding the northern axis of attack on Gallia, peering out across the room from behind his formidable glasses. His reputation as a fearsome and uncompromising commander was well earned, as was his reputation for being an insufferable snob who believed in the inherent supremacy of the Empire's culture and ways. For the Nordlanders being assigned to general Gregor was drawing the short straw. Any of the other Imperial commanders would have made their lives easier. But fighting under Gregor had its advantages. Not only was he a skilled officer but being assigned to the northern portion of the offensive meant they were closer to the precious ragnite mines that Nordland so desperately needed.

Only when he had reached the centre of the stage did he invite those assembled to sit down, with a little aloof gesture of his hand. Behind him was a large map of the northern portion of Gallia and he wasted no time in getting to the point.

"Gentlemen and guests." Clearly Gregor was also going to waste no time in belittling the Nordlanders. Even the way he said the word, guests, was dripping with condescension. "As many of you will be aware, tomorrow we launch our attack on Gallia. For too long their ragnite mines and industrial capacity have been withheld from us. Their audacity in denying the Empire what it needs must now be corrected. Their forces are small, their discipline poor and their soldiers pathetic. I expect a swift and decisive victory." He sounded supremely confident and perhaps a little arrogant. But this was not without reason. Most military opinion concurred with him. But suddenly a firm and sharp edge came to his voice, almost reprimanding those before him for an offence not yet committed. "But this is no excuse to be sloppy or lazy. Everyone one of you will fight to the very best of your ability and in so doing show these upstarts, and the rest of the world, the power and professionalism of the Empire!" Gesturing behind him, to the large map, he continued. "This is the northern corridor of our advance, containing the greatest prize. The industrial heart of Gallia. When we capture this, all of Gallia will fall. His Grace, the Archduke Maximillian, will not tolerate delays on this front. I have therefore created a plan for a lightning assault across this whole region." Tapping on the heavily fortified area of Mulberry with his cane he stated, almost proudly. "I will take the seventh panzer division, the third infantry division and the twelfth infantry division here, to Mulberry. There I will lay siege to the fortifications and bottle up any forces garrisoned there before grinding them into submission. Meanwhile, a larger offensive will strike further west. Almost to the Gallian coast!"

It was at this juncture that Gregor did something that was quite unexpected for all of the Imperial officers there. Aggressively thrusting his cane at the Nordlander Divisional Commander he sharply ordered him.

"Mr Egland. Explain the plan." By dropping any reference to rank, and not even saying please, Gregor was continuing to show immense disrespect, even distain. But again, the Nordlanders would not rise to the insult. Instead, General Egland stood up and walked on the stage. An immediate difference in the general attitude of Nordland and Imperial officers became apparent. As when General Egland walked onto the stage the Nordlanders applauded their general. There was even the hint of a faint cheer. Egland had been a hero of Nordland for some time, a brilliant commander, a father of Nordland airborne warfare and well beloved by his men. It was an awkward applause, as the rest of the room sat there in confused silence, but applause none the less. When General Egland heard the encouragement behind him you could almost see a little spring in his step, and energy to his movements, return to him. He was almost as old as Gregor, but he seemed thirty years younger than General Gregor in the way he moved, sounded and he still had a youthful vigour in his eyes.

When General Egland spoke he was also more enthusiastic than the dry yet vitriolic Gregor and unlike Gregor he was in no way keen to drive a wedge between the Imperials and Nordlanders.

"Gentlemen. You are all about to make history!" Then, after a slight pause he leaned in with a tiny smile and added. "So let's make sure we don't blunder this one too hard!" There was a little ripple of laughter from the Nordlanders, even Jukka cracked a smile and joined in. The Imperials however, remained silent. Either because they were unimpressed at such joviality or felt too awkward at all of this too laugh. A tiny titter from one Imperial officer swiftly choked into embarrassed silence as the young man tried to hide from Gregor's accusing and deeply annoyed gaze. Realising humour was not his friend General Egland returned to business. Picking up a nearby stick, specifically left there for indicating places on the map, he continued his briefing. "This is our position near the Gallain border, here. Tomorrow three airborne brigades will begin landing in Gallia. Thirty thousand men taking off from twenty airfields in troop carrying planes or towed in gliders." There was an impressed, almost disbelieving murmur from all of the Imperials in the room, besides Gregor of course. One of the reasons air insertion had been disregarded by the other nations of the world was that it had been thought impossible to practically insert large forces into the field. It appeared that the Nordlanders were determined to prove the conventional wisdom wrong.

"The Nordland third airborne brigade here, at Barge." He tapped the town of Barge on the map, a vital river crossing town due south of Mulberry which sat on the first major river between the Imperial border and the Gallian west coast. "The second Nordland airborne brigade here, at Velgern." Again, he tapped on the map to a town directly west of Barge, which also sat on a north running river and which marked the second major water way between the border and the coast. "Finally, the first airborne brigade here, at Fouzen. One hundred and twenty four miles behind enemy lines." Another murmur of disbelief went around the hall and though the Nordlanders present all already knew the plan even they were still slightly shocked. Sixty miles was considered a deep drop by their standards, but to go more than twice that distance was seemingly suicide. Every man there pitied those assigned to the Fouzen drop. Too many things could go wrong and Jukka, indeed every Nordlander there, knew that General Egland would never have suggested such an audacious target. Jukka suspected that it was Gregor's idea to go that far, it would certainly match the general's reputation, especially since it was Nordlanders that would be taking the risk. But despite all of these worries Jukka and General Egland were both putting a brave face on things.

"The job of the airborne boys will be to capture the bridges and key defences in these three areas." Then, gesturing out to the assembled Imperial officers he stated excitedly. "Your job is to punch a hole through the Gallian defences here." He said, tapping at a location near the border. "And then drive like hell, up the roads, linking up with each airborne brigade on the way." Pausing for a moment, to draw in everyone's attention and to emphasise his next point, even clenching his fist to demonstrate how essential it was, he continued. "Speed, is the vital factor. The plan is to reach Barge in four to five hours, and Fouzen in four to five days. That gentlemen is the prize!" Tapping Fouzen on the map once again he added. "The industrial might of Gallia. Kick off for the armoured advance will be at ten thirty hours tomorrow morning, with the airborne element going in at night. The first battalion, first airborne regiment under the command of Lieutenant Colonel Ylioja will be the first in Fouzen." Leaning slightly to the side, and whispering to a fellow officer and old friend Jukka whispered.

"I'm the first into the fire again I see." But he was interrupted in his semi sarcastic grumbling by the general, who looked him dead in the eyes and cried out jovially.

"What do you say to that Jukka?" Rising gently Jukka simply smiled and said.

"Delighted sir, truly delighted." Another ripple of laughter went around the Nordlanders and though the Imperials had learned not to laugh, a few cracked amused smiles. Oddly though, others looked angrier than ever. But general Egland was not done yet, still smiling the general added.

"Now I have selected you to lead us, not only because of your extraordinary fighting ability. But also because, in the unlikely event the Gallian's ever get you, they will assume from your filthy pipe that they have captured a wretched farmer and immediately send you on your way." More laughter went around the group, even Jukka laughed at himself and he seemed genuinely pleased and happy for a few moments. Turning his attention to the Imperials General Egland lowered his tone slightly, addressing them more seriously.

"Now, maintaining the speed of your armoured advance will no doubt be tough going. It's a good road, a wide road, with plenty of side paths. But it's a long way to go and the enemy will doubtless try to stop you at various points out in the country. But no matter what, you must reach the first airborne in ninety six hours! Now gentlemen, this will not be the easiest operation we have ever engaged in, but I still wouldn't miss it for the world." He was about to engage in a little further explanation, but General Gregor thought this had gone on long enough, the key point had been explained and he wanted this grinning buffoon off of his stage!

"That will be quite enough Mr Egland." Interrupted General Gregor, walking forward once more and with an expression that clearly showed that the Imperial General had run out of patience for this man. "Return to your seat." Resisting the urge to give a comedic sigh to his own troops Egland returned to his position amongst the other officers before Gregor wrapped up the meeting, half eyeing Egland with obvious suspicion and contempt.

"Men, you all know your roles. More specific instructions will be forwarded to you through your chiefs of staff. Return to your units, make your final preparations. I expect us to bring Gallia to its knees tomorrow! Dismissed." There was no room for dissent in his authoritarian tones, and certainly no time for questions. Gregor left the stage with surprising speed for a man near crippled, it was as if he had somewhere more important to be. Though Jukka had to wonder, where was this man going in such a hurry? What could be more important than preparing the invasion?

Regardless, this meeting was over and already various officers had begun to file out and back to their respective posts. The Nordlanders all still seemed to be in a little huddle, talking to one another, shaking hands, laughing. But Jukka, perhaps foolishly, got it in his mind to try something a little more adventurous. Looking about him Jukka was scanning the Imperial officers for unit and rank badges. He knew exactly who he was after, the Colonel who would be commanding the lead regiment of the 4th panzer division. This was the man who would be commanding the tip of the Imperial armoured spear, this was the man who would be riding to Jukka's rescue and who ultimately held Jukka's life in his hands. Jukka was a firm believer in the idea that a man tried harder to save someone he knew more than a mere stranger that he was order to retrieve. Even a hand shake and a brief conversation usually radically increased your allies resolve to come and get you when the bullets started flying. Usually Jukka like to try and eat with his fellow officers and soldiers. But for now, simple introductions would have to do.

It did not take long for Jukka to identify the right man by his insignia. The imperial officer in question was a man named Colonel Joachim Ebner, dressed in the same black uniform as all of his counterparts, complete with the tiny cape that Jukka thought made the man look a little ridiculous. But the Lieutenant Colonel kept his amusement to himself as he walked straight up to the slightly imposing figure and, mindful of the fact he was addressing someone who was technically a senior, said casually but with an appropriate hint of deference.

"Colonel Ebner, I am Lieutenant Colonel Jukka Ylioja. One of the paratroopers you will be pulling out of Fouzen. I understand you are leading the armoured spearhead."

There had been nothing particularly offensive or antagonistic about what Jukka had said, or the way he had said it. But after the Imperial officer regarded Jukka for a moment, a look of obvious suspicion and slight dissatisfaction came across the Colonel's face. It was the kind of menacing looking face that you did not want to be dissatisfied. The Colonel was obviously slightly older the Jukka and would defiantly have been a veteran of EWI. The man was hard jawed and also hard worn by his years. A slightly weathered and battered face hinted at a hard and eventful life, a small scar across his cheek further reinforced this impression. His brown hair was short cut, purely for function, and his hazel eyes currently looked rather annoyed. They were staring at Jukka's chest for several long and heavy seconds before flicking up and gazing the Nordlander right in the eyes.

"Those medal ribbons, on your chest, I recognise some of them. That one there is the Nordland war medal for EWI, and that one is the Allied Victory Medal from that same war. Whilst that one is the Infantry Order of Gallantry. So, you fought on the Norldand front on the last war." This conversation could now go one of two ways and the next sentence would decide which path it took. Either the officer in front of Jukka could attempt to establish some form of levity based on the common hardship of the Nordland front or… "I lost good friends on the Nordland front. I wonder if you were responsible for any of them." That was about the worst opening Jukka could have envisaged and he felt his heart sink a little bit in his chest. He could hardly blame the Imperial Colonel, the loss of comrades always stung and to be asked to work with those who may have taken away those dear to you was no easy request. But this man needed to learn that these wounds were felt by both sides.

Taking a moment to compose himself, check his thoughts, and make sure he did not say anything too foolish, Jukka eventually replied in gentle but firm tones.

"We all lost people in the last war Colonel Ebner. Someone in this very room could have pulled the trigger on the shot killed some of my own comrades. Certainly someone who wore a uniform not too dissimilar to your own did. The Nordland front was desperate, and bloody, and cold for all of us. But we were all soldiers, we all did our duty to our nations and by our comrades." By this point the conversation was starting to gain a little attention from Nordlanders and Imperials alike, a small circle was starting to form around what threatened to become an ugly confrontation. But Jukka continued regardless. "I do not bear a soldier any ill will for simply doing his duty. Now we are merely doing our duty for our nations once more. But now we are allies. Therefore I will fight alongside you and for you with all the determination and conviction that I would for a fellow Nordlander. I hope I can rely on you to do the same. There are going to be lots of good men in Fouzen, for many it will be their first real fight. They are going to need you Colonel."

If Jukka had been hoping for an instant alteration in Colonel Ebner's attitudes then the Nordlander would be sorely disappointed. Colonel Ebner's expression did not soften, but at least it did not get worse either. With a firmly frowning brow Colonel Ebner said in a tone which was as dissatisfied as his face.

"Do not question my determination to fulfil my orders. General Gregor has order me to reach Fouzen in ninety six hours. So I will reach Fouzen in ninety six hours. But I do so because of General Gregor. Just have Fouzen ready for us when we arrive." With that Colonel Ebner left, turning his heel without so much as a good by and striding smartly out of the hall. Jukka wondered if he had made a poor decision in trying to establish some sort of understanding between the Nordlanders and the Imperials, but he failed to see any other alternative. A lack of dialogue would only entrench animosity and such dislike and distrust would threaten to get both Nordlanders and Imperials alike killed.

Regardless, the situation was as it was and there was nothing he was going to be able to do about it for the moment. He began to file out of the room with the rest of the Nordlanders, a pat on the shoulder from General Egland seemed to say both, good luck and nice try, at the same time but the two did not need to speak. The effort had been a failure and they both knew it. Jukka remained in a solemnly reflective and slightly dejected mood until he had walked a little way down the road outside of the school house.

He was in the process of lighting up a comforting pipe when the voice of Erling caught his attention. His chief of staff was running up the road towards the Lieutenant Colonel, a slightly happy look on his face.

"Colonel!" Called out the Major, it only took a few more moments for Erling to come up to Jukka's side. Jukka for his part had a look of semi amused curiosity on his face. No one was shooting and there was no scheduled P.T. so why was the Major running up so urgently? "Jukka! It's Gunnar! He's out in the hangers now, overseeing the fitting of his plane! Telling the ground crew how to operate a bomb loader! Come quick. I think someone's going to hit him over the head with a wrench any minute!" With an almost boyish laugh Jukka quickly burst into a run himself, following Erling down the country roads and out to the edge of town, pausing only to properly identify himself at the airfield check point.

When he eventually arrived at the hanger, hot and slightly out of breath, the scene that was presented to him was exactly what the thought it would be. A brand new plane had two engineers working on it, stained by oil and grease. Standing slightly off to the side was a pilot, in full, off blue flight suit, flying gogles on his forehead, respirator hanging around his neck, and looking very dissatisfied with the whole state of affairs. The voice of an engineer from beneath the plane could just be heard calling out.

"Will you just shut up!... Squadron Leader….Sir." The ground crew's obvious anger seemed to fade away as he remembered the fact he was addressing a senior officer. More normally Jukka would have been quick to enforce respect for rank but with Gunnar, well he could understand what drove the crewman to such frustration. Squadron Leader Gunnar Lauritzen was a difficult man to get along with and right now he was demonstrating that fact by answering the crewman with his own frustrated reprimand.

"Am I going to have to do that myself? The undercarriage suspension pressure needs to be at seven thousand psi, not six thousand!" Gunnar's tone made it sound like he was trying to explain something simple to a child that he had long ago lost patience with. Then again, the engineer sounded just the same when he barked back.

"On the old HL 32 MRF maybe! But you put it that high on the HL 35 you'll bounce right off of the tarmac!"

"A rookie might!" Replied Gunnar, with the same speed he demonstrated behind the controls, but with less discretion. "But I need to feel the runway under me for night and bad weather landings! We do fly in the dark you know!"

It was at this point that Jukka, supressing the urge to laugh at this oh so predictable scene, decided he had to intervene. Though he lacked specific knowledge of the technical details of aircraft he thought a compromise was the best bet here.

"Crewman, do you think six thousand five hundred is safe?" Jukka was the image of calm and reason here, even though he was the one person who had no idea what he was talking about. A fact that Gunnar was keen to remind the Lieutenant Colonel of.

"Jukka! When you learn to fly a plane instead of just fall out of one you can open your mouth! Until then keep it shut!" Gunnar had apparently forgotten all about rank, as Jukka had superiority. There was no hint of a sir or even the tiniest hint of deference. For Gunnar, when he was in a mood, there were two kinds of people. Ace pilots and know nothing peasants who could get out of his way. The engineer however, seemed a little bit more affable, doubtless keen for a way out of this mess.

"Six thousand five hundred is pushing the tolerances, but she might just be landable." With a grumble of annoyed resignation he added. "I can do six thousand five hundred." But Gunnar was in no mood for compromise who, raising his voice to a near shout retorted.

"Seven thousand or I'll find a ground crew that knows their business!" But the engineer had some spine about him, coming out from under the plane he stood up, looked Gunnar square in the eyes and said with almost intimidating understatement.

"This plane does not fly without my sign off. Six thousand five hundred or your grounded Squadron Leader." There were several seconds of tense silence before a grumble from Gunnar signalled compliance. Jukka almost wanted to clap, no one stood up to Gunnar and got away with it! He was certainly smiling his approval at the engineer when the man pointed at Jukka firmly and demanded.

"Put that pipe out! There's aviation fuel around here you know." Unwilling to argue with a man who could go toe to toe with Gunnar, Jukka swiftly complied. He looked almost embarrassed as he did so and, truth be told, he should have known better any way. He had forgotten the most basic safety procedures due to all the excitement.

But now all the entertainment was over, and Gunnar was clearly in good health, Jukka would waste no time. Walking right up to the pilot Jukka looked as though he were about to hug the man, rather than shake his hand, but Gunnar just stood there, arms folded. So, Jukka had to settle for a hardy pat on the back, standing next to his old friend and joining him in staring at the plane.

"Gunnar! How have you been? I haven't heard from you in months! Wrapped in the arms of some new woman I see." Jukka was jovial and warm but Gunnar was still sulking. Jukka knew from long experience that one of the best ways to lighten his mood was to talk to him about his planes, or his women as Jukka jokingly called them. Certainly Gunnar seemed to care about them a great deal more than any female that Jukka could call to mind and he pitied any future wife of this brilliant pilot. Gunnar would always be married to his planes first. It took Gunnar a few moments to warm up but eventually the man managed to crack a smile. Fixing his green eyes on the fighter before him he didn't even look at Jukka. Instead he simply cast his eyes over his new favourite toy. She was a surprisingly long creature, and sleek, with an impressive wing span. Slightly squared wing tips marked her out as something quite distinctive. He main body was gently tapered though, a look completed by the razorback cockpit design. Her top and sides had been painted in a loose, blurry pattern of mixed green and arctic grey to better conceal her from above, whilst her underside was the kind of grey you might expect to see in the skies on a rainy day. Without bothering to turn to Jukka he simply began.

"The Halseth and Lindvig 35 Multi Role Fighter. The finest MRF I've ever flow. Out of the factory she's a little sluggish on the yaw but a bit of on field tweaking and she flies like a dream. Grease monkeys here weren't happy when I ordered them to make the alterations on all the planes in my squadron. But I got them to stretch a point, mostly. The prototype flew damn near perfectly when I tested her. It was almost like there was no machine between me and the sky. But I understand they made some slight tweaks for the factory model, ease of production apparently." The way Jukka said the words, ease of production, conveyed his contempt for the idea. He was an artisan and the idea anyone would make any kind of compromise when it came to the art of flying offended him. "Still, as production models she goes she's damn fine." He continued, his tone picking up. "Ten meters wide, nine meters long you would be amazed at the amount of armaments H and L can pack into this thing. Two twenty millimetre machine cannons in the wings, strong enough to punch through light armour, two thirteen millimetre machine guns in the nose, mountings for three three hundred pound bombs and best of all." It was at this moment that he gestured to the munitions even now being wheeled in and said with a triumphant tone. "Ten AP rockets!"

Even Jukka looked impressed and surprised, the concept of the armour penetration rocket had been discussed for some time. Far smaller than bombs, theoretically more accurate and almost as powerful for their allotted task, armour piercing rockets were a holy grail of Nordland weapon manufacturing. The problem was accuracy, it only took a few meters before all the test models flew off randomly. But now they were putting them into the field! Were they ready? Indeed, Jukka felt compelled to ask this himself.

"Are these things field worthy? How's the accuracy?" His tone was dripping with the same disbelief as his face. He was impressed, but this seemed too good to be true.

"They are fine for a few hundred meters." Assured Gunnar. "But you have to be rock steady when you fire them. If you're banking when they go off you might just blow off your own wing. Not for rookies but my guys can handle them." Gunnar was known as a demanding but discerning squadron leader. He picked his pilots carefully and his sterling reputation meant command often allowed him first choice. Beyond that he trained them hard, with constant flight drills, tactical lessons and battle practice. But more than that he also encouraged ingenuity and originality. If you needed a set of pilots to pull the rabit out of the hat it was Gunnar's boys you turned to. "The enemy armour will run and hide when they learn these things are in the sky!"

Gunnar let off a small chuckle. He always found the idea of tank busting amusing. So many people thought those lumbering lumps of iron were the be all and end all of modern warfare. But Gunnar was convinced his boy could pick off even the heaviest tanks like they were swatting flies. "She's future proofed as well, should other nations start putting meaningful fighter power in the sky. With a top speed of four hundred and ten miles an hour, a maximum height of thirty seven and a half thousand feet and the manoeuvrability of a flea this thing will rule the sky for years to come!" Suddenly the happy, affable Gunnar was back, grinning like a school boy, giddy with excitement at his new toy.

Jukka was just as happy to see the smiling Gunnar back as Gunnar himself was. Giving the pilot another few pats on the back Jukka said cheerily.

"Come on Gunnar, there's a lovely little place selling some half decent coffee back in the centre of town. What is more they have the prettiest little waitress you ever did see. Not that she's anything compared the fearsome kind of bird you like to indulge in." Jukka, Gunnar and Erling all laughed merely at the idea and began walking out of the hanger side by side. Turning to Erling, Jukka gave the man a little prod in the ribs with his elbow. "I don't know what you are laughing at! I see the way your eyes followed her!"

"The plane or the waitress?" Asked Gunnar, with a tone that suggested that Gunnar would not have been in any way disapproving if Erling chose the plane. Though his raised eyebrows and cheeky smile betrayed his true sarcasm.

"Take your pick." Replied Erling, playing up to the idea with a comedic shrug of his shoulders. Another ripple of laughter went through the group and the weight of the coming war suddenly seemed very light indeed.

"Come on." Pressed Gunnar, pushing Jukka in the back slightly as if to drive him forward. "Jukka, you're buying." His tone made it clear that this was no suggestion, but rather a plain statement of fact. With a little surprised, and slightly offended laugh Jukka was compelled to ask.

"Why me?" His tone was dripping with mock offense and an exaggerated plea for pity, but he did feel slightly hard done by.

"You get paid more than us." Joked Gunnar, all be it accurately. Erling joined in with a slightly muted laugh, as if he didn't want Jukka to catch him chuckling. But the Major was grinning like a Cheshire cat with clear amusement, eyes wide open in slight disbelief that Gunnar had been so bold. Jukka meanwhile, took the whole thing in good spirits.

"Urgh, it's always the money with you." Said Jukka, obviously amused rather than irritated. "Fine but you owe me." He added, waving a finger at the Squadron Leader, but still smiling slightly.

"Well, since I will be leading your fighter escort and close support tomorrow how about I keep you alive? Will that settle the debt?" Beneath the humour was an utterly empty threat, but a threat none the less. A slightly defiant expression on Gunnar's face, eyebrows raised, asked Jukka just what the Lieutenant Colonel was going to do about it. There was a pause for a few seconds before Jukka grinned so wide his face threatened to crack and he burst out in a hearty chuckle. Patting Gunnar on the back he exclaimed.

"That just about ought to do it." Said Jukka, prompting all three to laugh once more as they walked off into town, the old boys, together again.


	3. Jump!

The skies above Fouzen. The day of the invasion.

The roar of engines threatened to drown out all of the other noise in the world. Two huge motors kept this plane aloft, the rumble continually vibrating the fuselage ever so slightly. Beyond this one plane were thirty nine others carrying this battalion alone, twenty five Nordland paratroopers crammed into each one like sardines in a can. Beyond them were another eighty planes carrying the rest of the regiment. Their noise combined was cacophonous. The metal on Jukka's back was cold and frosty, there was no insulation on these planes and the chill night air combined with the altitude and wind speed made for a deep chill. When he breathed Jukka could see a tiny cloud of steam in front of him. All of his men were huddled slightly for warmth, some rubbing their gloved hands together, others stamping their feet a little to stop the chill sending their legs numb. Every one of them was wearing the durable, near knee length, camouflage smocks that were a signature of paratroopers over their blue uniforms. But even this extra layer had difficulty fending off the chill.

Looking around him Jukka silently took in the faces of his men, particularly the younger ones. For many of them this would be their first real fight but for all of them this was their first combat drop. Tonight would be the first use of paratroopers in warfare, tonight Nordland theory would be put to the test, tonight all those drills, all those rehearsal jumps, all that training, would be put into practice. Everyman was nervous, but they all kept it reasonably controlled. Some men, like Jukka, gave no appearance of being worried at all, no matter what was going on in their heart their faces were pictures of calm and confidence. Others seemed a little more uneasy, fidgeting and checking their webbing or parachute lines obsessively. But none of them were panicked, fear had not over whelmed them.

Jukka's battalion would be the first into Fouzen, the rest of the regiment would land shortly after and the remainder of the brigade behind that, some in gliders bringing anti-tank guns, light artillery and tows. Of his battalion Jukka would be the first on the ground. Some might have considered this a foolish thing for a Lieutenant Colonel to do, an unnecessary risk, but Jukka had a long habit of going forward. What was more, he believed in leading by example. This was to be the first drop of its kind and he considered it his role to be the first out of the door, to show his men that it could be done and that he would not ask his troops to do anything he would not do himself. At least, this was what he would tell anyone who asked him why he wanted to be the first out of that door. All of the above was true, but there was another thought that drove him. The thrill of it. He was going to have to jump out of the plane either way but being the first out, being the first to fling himself at the ground and toward the foe would be one hell of an adrenaline kick. It was a dangerous instinct and perhaps a foolish one. He was not insane enough to run head long into machine gun fire but this leniency towards risk taking, the fact he was not afraid of the rush, threatened to put him into a very bad situation one of these days. But the desire to be the first one out of that door, to race to the earth and be the first to put his boots on the ground was a strong motivator.

But whilst the questionable honour of being the first soldier of the war to put his boots on Gallian soil would be Jukka's, the equally questionable honour of firing the first shot would belong to someone else. A little way ahead of the troop carrying planes flew the lead element of the fighter support, and at the very tip of the spear, flew Squadron Leader Gunnar Lauritzen. The growl of his own engine did not bother him, he almost missed it when he was on the ground. Nor did the cold seem to affect him, it just reminded him that he was up where he was supposed to be. Gently looking around he eyed his wing mates, impressed by H&L's flame suppressants on the engines, rendering these sleek angels of death harder than ever to spot in the night sky. Just a black spot against a blacker void overhead. This far up there was nothing to get in the way of the glorious crystal clear beauty of the heavens. Sometimes he just wanted to pick and star and follow it, racing against the dawn, to keep flying forever. Other days he fancied navigating by the stars alone, like a sailor of old. He wondered if ever man would go higher, to the next logical step, when pilots would not have to settle for touching the heavens but could drift amongst the stars themselves.

But as much as he would like to dwell on the lights of the heavens he had to turn his attention to the lights of earth bellow. In a world unused to aerial warfare Gallia had not taken the nessecary precautions and the city of Fouzen was lit up like a Christmas tree ahead of the attackers. In order to retain the element of surprise Nordland had opted not to carpet the area with a preliminary aerial bombardment, meaning what defences there were would be at full strength. Both Gallian air cover and anti-air were rated as, not merely inadequate, but non-existent. Therefore the primary role of Gunnar and his boys was to do a quick pass over Fouzen, attacking anything that looked like it might be troublesome for the ground troops, before returning to base to rearm and refuel. Checking his instruments and watch to verify the distance travelled Gunnar then radioed in to his squadron, his voice edged by the distinctive electronic echo of the wireless.

"Confirmed, Fouzen below. Come in for a low altitude pass. Spread out lads and take it easy. They don't have a hint of AA. Take your time but make those shots count." With the well-oiled efficiency of a machine the squadron speed up and pulled away from the transports, entering into a shallow dive and descending upon Fouzen like a hawk upon a rabbit. Were this a Nordland city they would be flying nose first into a hail of AA, but no bullets or shells came. It was obvious that Fouzen had not yet been fortified. It was considered a long way from the front and what fixed defences she had were hastily dug trenches on her eastern and southern sides, hugging the river, supplemented by the odd pillbox or gun emplacement. This was not going to be an issue for the paratroopers, since they would not cast away the advantage of being able to pick their approach by running headlong into the few defences this place had. So instead the planes turned their attention inwards. One little complex of buildings seemed either to be a vehicle garage or the final stages of manufacture. Either way a good number of seemingly complete Gallian light tanks were arrayed in nice, neat rows. It was very nice of them to arrange his targets in such easy to hit lines thought Gunnar, as he and several planes from his squadron swept on the immobile and vulnerable foe. If anything it would have been rude of him not to take such a well presented opportunity.

Taking his time he and his men lined up the perfect shots. The world seemed to slow slightly for the pilot as he became acutely aware of his breathing, the sound of his engine seemed to fade into near obscurity. Taking what seemed to be an agonisingly long breath, but which in fact lasted for a brief moment, Gunnar then held it, went through a moment of perfect stillness and then squeezed the trigger. The world came crashing back as the noise of the shots echoed out across the sky. He had fired the first shot of the war. Now his AP rockets and machine cannon opened up in a hail of led and vapour trails. Gunnar could feel his bird rock slightly with the shudder of his machine cannon, but the rockets seemed to glide away as if they were made of air. He had seen the rockets perform well in testing, but he had been slightly apprehensive as to how they would fair in the field, Jukka's concern of the previous day had not been without foundation. But thankfully, they proved to be unjustified. The rockets flew straight and true, slamming into their targets with the force of a hammer, piercing the inches of steel that made a tanks skin, and then unleashing a secondary explosion and destroying the vehicle from the inside. Subsequent explosions of fuel and ragnite began to spread through the tank pool until eventually the blasts must have strayed across a ragnite or ammunition dump. A huge pillar of blue flame erupted into the sky, there was a heavy split second of silence as the air seemed to be sucked away before the low, loud boom of the explosion tore the air apart and rocked the fighters that had caused the blast. If Fouzen was not awake before, it was now.

Across the city Gunnar's planes were picking off similar targets, going after tanks and vehicles that might have proven troublesome. Getting a bit of height Gunnar began a casual pass over the city, flipping his plane upside down so as to take a long, easy look through what would otherwise have been the roof of his cockpit. He could spy confused civilians leaving their homes and standing in the streets, looking about to see what the crisis was. He saw the few elements of the Town Watch that were actually on duty running around like wet hens, the rest had presumably not even put their boots on yet. He even saw the flag of the militia flying over a tiny barracks, but even they seemed largely to be asleep. Certainly he could detect no meaningful activity there yet. But crucially, there was not a regular army unit to be seen, nor a meaningful tank presence in anything other than factory assembly yards or burning motor pools. Clearly the strength of the Gallian army was not here, likely either further east, closer to the border, or gathered around Randgriz. This was exactly as had been planed.

Signalling some of his wing mates to follow him Gunnar climbed and doubled back in a graceful arc, heading for the Millitia base and more specifically a little cluster of radio antenna that seemed to signal a headquarters. Soaring high above it he thrust his control column forward and plummeted into a head long noise dive. Gunnar may have loved to soar amongst the heavens, but sometimes he liked to play chicken with the ground, tearing at the earth, daring it to get out of his way! Faster and faster and faster he plummeted, the roar of his engines, the shudder of metal, gritted teeth and eyes open wide! Then, click, his first bomb was released before wrenching back hard on the controls and pulling out of the dive. A thundering boom signalled that the bomb had found its target and down went to radio tower, in a twisted pile of screaming metal. Click, the second bomb was released. Shortly after, click, the third and final bomb was away. Two more bombs in quick succession, and a flash of light behind him, signalled the impact. The headquarters building was a flame, as was a nearby building whose purpose was unidentified. The two other planes that had accompanied him picked on other important looking buildings in the barracks, sending the occupants into a blind panic.

With munitions spent, and enemy locations relayed to the appropriate people, Gunnar and his squad climbed to safety and began the journey home. Soon they would be reequipped and return to the fight. But for now he just had to sail gently back to the airfield. Looking to his left Gunnar could see the first of the parachutes open up, slightly indistinct against the night sky but spottable by a good pilot. Unable to tear his eyes away he watched as chute after chute opened up like blossom in spring, acutely aware that each one had a tiny, vulnerable person just dangling off of it. Without transmitting over the radio Gunnar just whispered.

"Good luck you bastards." Before tearing away into the cold night.

Jukka, for his part, had been waiting patiently in his plane. The low boom of Gunnar and his boys devastating key points around Fuzen just managed to make its way past the incessant roar of engines, somehow making the reality of this situation so much more apparent to the paratroopers. They all knew that people were now dead. There was no doubt in anyone's mind that this was anything other than a war, and all the things that came with that realisation went through the mind of every man in that plane. But no one spoke, no one had the opportunity to speak. The red light that had been sitting over the jump door turned yellow with a little buzz. Giving his chute straps a firm tug Jukka calmly stood and opened the door. The cold rush of wind hit him like a hammer, but he did not flinch. The scream of the engines was now near deafening, blades whirling like fury mere meters from his head. For a moment he turned his head, to look at his comrades, who in turn were all looking at him with faces that betrayed thoughts of fear, excitement, worry, boldness, expectation, hope, concern, bravery and so much more. From nowhere, almost without realising he was saying it, Jukka evenly declared.

"Win the day, for Nordland needs her victory. But do not throw your life away, for Nordland needs her sons."

With that the light turned green and Jukka threw himself out of the plane without a moment's hesitation. Mere seconds later his line snapped sharply and his parachute opened with a jolt that could shake a man so hard he might bite off his own tongue. The lack of AA and the night cover meant that the paratroopers were being dropped nice and low. They would not have to spend long dangling like glorified targets in the sky. Half the time he was casting his eyes downwards, adjusting his course to land in patch of open ground, behind a shallow ridge to the north of Fouzen. The other half of the time he was watching the city itself. Fires could be seen from Gunnar's attack, illuminating patches of the town in dancing orange light, flicking in and out in a manner reminiscent of a spritely child. At least it looked like that from a distance, but Jukka had too much experience with fire up close to think of it like that. He knew the roaring, blistering monster it was, rather than the child it seemed to be. The rest of the city was lit up by street lights, now being accompanied by house lights turning on, hundreds and hundreds of them, like fairy lights in the black. The city of Fouzen was waking up and wondering what on earth was going on.

It was not long until Jukka hit the ground. Outside observers almost always underestimated just how hard and how fast you hit mother earth when dangling from a parachute. Moments before impact Jukka had pulled a string on his leg, so his weapon was no longer tied to him but was now hanging idly off of him. Failure to do this could lead to awkward things like a broken leg and it would be highly embarrassing if the first boots in Gallia belonged to a shattered ankle. Moments after his feet touched the earth he fell sideways and hit his head hard on the ground, rolling as best he could to absorb the impact. He felt a distinct sting through his steel helmet but wasted no time in rising to his feet, freeing himself of the silk chute and immediately starting to give orders.

"Form by the company! Company A to the left!" His voice was loud, clam and clear. But everyone knew how urgent his orders were. Paratroopers were at their most vulnerable when they were hitting the ground. Out in the open, disorganised, without proper equipment. The key to a successful paratrooper action was to form as fast as possible and attack at once! Whilst his men started hitting the ground, forming up into their respective companies and platoons, those responsible for larger weapons recovering them from the boxes in which they were dropped, Jukka wasted no time in preparing himself. In a manner that some might have described as bull headed insanity, but which he described as cavalier leadership, he removed his helmet and tucked it away in his bag. Instead, reaching into a stuffed pocket, he drew out his officer's visor cap, crumpled but still distinctive and recognisable. Placing it on his head he felt like himself again and, with a confident smile he seized his weapon and drew it out of its bag. Officers in the line were usually given shorter range weapons, a subtle way of dissuading them from joining the firing line and making sure they kept on giving orders instead, where they were most effective. But Jukka, though a combination of his own reputation, repeated insistence and several bottles of whisky to the quartermaster, was issued with a Hult and Holmstrӧm 34 Paratrooper Support Rifle. The 34 PSR was a redesign of the highly successful 33 ISR, or Infantry Support Rifle, specifically re tooled for the unique challenges such a weapon would face when confronted with a jump. Hult and Holmstrӧm had originally pitched the weapons to be used in a light machine gun role, with the key difference being they could be carried by a single man with a usable amount of ammunition. They had thought there would be one or two weapons of this type in each platoon.

But Nordland soldiers quickly saw the true potential of these weapons. With the range of a rifle yet only slightly heavier and just as accurate these weapons could quickly render the bolt action rifle obsolete. On the request of Nordland Command Hult and Holmstrӧm had redesigned the weapon to be capable of semi-automatic fire as well as fully automatic fire, and designed small box magazines to make it even easier for the lone soldier to load, operate and move. The 33 ISR revolutionised Nordland infantry and though true machine guns were still necessary the 33 ISR changed everything. Nordland has not yet been able to equip all her soldiers with these new weapons. A complex manufacturing process means roughly half her soldiers still carry rifles or sub machine guns. But the difference was noticeable.

The 34 PSR differed from her sister in that it was ever so slightly heavier, reflecting her reinforced construction for the drop. She also had a smaller magazine, twenty rounds compared to the ISR's thirty and the magazine was a rectangular box loaded from the side rather than underneath, again a necessity of the drop. Aside from that she was near identical. Jukka felt the heft of it in his hands, checked her telescopic sight to ensure a lens had not been shaken loose on impact, loaded it and then swiftly returned to his business.

Doing a quick, guess based head count it looked as though his whole battalion had dropped successfully, a promising start. B Company was the first to form and Jukka wasted no time in putting them to action. Pointing at the shallow protective ridge he declared.

"B Company, secure the ridge and prepare to give cover fire to the advance!" His men did not need telling twice. Surging forward, with the odd instruction from junior officers and senior NCOs, they soon took the ridge without any opposition, hunkering down and setting up to pour a hail of rifle and machine gun fire into anything on the Northern edge of Fouzen which might oppose them. C company was the next to form and Jukka was just as quick to act. Bellowing out across the still gathering battalion Jukka declared.

"Erling, I am going forward. You know the drill! I expect to see you soon. C company, with me!" Waving C Company to follow him he jogged towards the ridge but he did not storm over it at once, as that would have been fool hardy even by his standards. Instead he flopped onto his stomach, lying on the dry and rough ground, next to one of his Company commanders. "Tell me Major, any sign of the enemy?"

"No sir." Came the simply reply, the Major still scanning the edge of Fouzen with his binoculars. "A few civilians running around but no armed men." Patting the Major on the back Jukka rose up onto one knee, saying quietly.

"Thank you Major." Before surging to his feet and boldly declaring. "C company! Charge!" He shouted the order out like a hero of old, the image it conjured was that of a dashing cavalry officer atop a noble and rearing steed. He should have had a sabre in his hand and a gleaming uniform. Instead an unremarkable camouflage jacket and an extremely unromantic PSR would have to do. It was somewhat incongruous with his manner, but he pulled it off. Tearing forward he wasted no time into bursting into a full on sprint. His sturdy boots pounded the dry Fouzen dirt, his heart beating in his chest, his eyes darting from shadow to shadow, window to window, looking for the barrel of a gun. The company was behind him, some men even drawing level with their bold commander.

Since they were not being fired upon an observer might have wondered why Jukka seemed to be running as if his life depended on it. That was because, in his mind, it did. In training they taught you never to linger in an open field a moment more than was necessary. You were an easy target and extremely vulnerable. Even a private straight out of basic training knew that. But for Jukka his apprehension was based in repeated and brutal personal experience. He was a veteran of the first war. There were a great many stories to be told of his time in that hard conflict. But one memory, etched in his mind in over a dozen different iterations, was that of going over the top. A small stretch of open land, far smaller than the distance between the ridge and Fouzen. A tiny patch of empty earth, packed with so much death. The sound of the machine guns rattling into eternity, the whistle of shell after shell, followed by explosions so loud they could not be heard. Men hiding in craters, men torn apart, the sound of screams, the smell of panic and fear, the taste of sweat and blood. Mad staring eyes, wild instinct, wild drive, wild fear, wild courage. The only way to survive was to run, run forward, run, run at the enemy and silence their guns, run. Jukka did not need to be back in no man's land to remember its lessons. He was in an open field and the enemy could be right in front of him. He needed to run, run as fast as he could and close that gap.

Thankfully, no one opened fire. The enemy were not prepared for an assault from the North and had not had time to adjust to, or perhaps even detect, this unexpected assault. Vaulting over a white picket fence and into the garden of a small house on the edge of town Jukka ran up to the closest door and pressed himself against the nearby wall, breathing heavily, unaware of the beautiful tulip beds he had just crushed into oblivion with his heavy boots. Moments later several men from the Company joined him, whilst others took up similar positions all along the row of houses. A brief look between soldiers, a short nod of the head, a moment's pause and then the splintering crack of a heavy boot meeting an aged door. It almost flew off of its hinges as it slammed open with a bang like a gun shot and into this average looking house on an average looking street, poured several soldiers, guns raised, checking their corners, ready for a fight. Voices could be heard from a nearby room, muffled, but audible.

"What was the dear?" Said a female voice, edged in fear and uncertainty.

"Stay here. I'll check it out." Declared a male, seemingly more sure of himself but barely masking his own unease. As a man Jukka, and the four men with him in this kitchen come dining room, span to face the door from which these voices were coming just in time to see it creak open. Stepping through was a middle aged man, a Darcsen by his hair, wearing his pyjamas and a night gown. His face went through several distinct phases as he looked upon the Nordland troops. First his face was entirely blank, as if not registering the reality of the situation. This was swiftly replaced by startled surprise, edged with fear at the barrels which were even now levelled squarely at him. The third and final phase was something akin to terror. But not terror for himself. Quickly turning to the door from which he had come he shouted. "Darling, take the kids and run! Just run!" He was frantic and desperate, unsure of what was going on. His note of caution was swiftly followed by several Nordland voices all yelling at him to get down on the ground and put his hands behind his head.

Jukka meanwhile, remained silent. Lowering his weapon he simply walked past the man, easily pushing him aside as he tried to block the Lieutenant Colonel's path. Jukka did not push him to the ground, just gently brushed him aside. Walking to the door Jukka looked into the corridor and saw what he knew he would see. There stood a slender Darcsen woman, her face starting to show the signs of age and her eyes full of fear. She was also wearing a night gown but had thrown an outdoor coat over the top. Clutching at her leg was a young girl, who could have been no more than seven. She also looked scared and confused, looking up at her mother, her eyes demanding an explanation. Finally there was a toddler, Jukka could not tell if it was a boy or a girl, wrapped in a shawl that the mother was clinging to her chest with the tender yet fierce desperation that only a mother could muster. There was a moment of heavy silence. The mother staring at Jukka, Jukka staring at her. Who would be the first to move? Suddenly she made a dash for the front door but Jukka got their first, a solid boot blocking it as she grasped at the handle with one hand. She tugged and heaved and pulled, trying to slam the door open time and time again but Jukka's foot just shrugged it all off. Eventually her efforts seemed to cease when she ripped the door knob off in her hand, her maternal ferocity had been her own defeat.

At this juncture the father of the family, unwilling to lay down so long as his loved ones were in danger, tried to attack Jukka from behind. But the Lieutenant Colonel did not even need to react. He knew his soldiers had him well protected and a little gasp of pain followed by a thud and the sounds of an impotent struggle let Jukka know his men had successfully tackled the father to the ground and had him restrained. The wife and children were at Jukka's mercy, the mother staring at him with a mixture of pleading and fear. There was a brief moment of silence, which seemed to last forever. Doubtless everyone in that family was picturing Jukka just raising his gun and firing and there was nothing anyone could have done about it. Jukka's own face was a seemingly blank mask, no hint of any hate, fear, concern, mercy, compassion. Nothing, just nothing. Soon however, the quiet was broken by the toddler stirring noisily in his mother's arms, twisting and struggling before finally breaking out into an ear piercing cry.

"Do you have a basement?" Enquired Jukka, quietly.

"What?" Responded the woman, voice a quiver.

"Do you have a basement?" Asked Jukka again, still quietly but with a tad more force to his voice. A terrified nod from the woman gave him his answer. Still speaking evenly Jukka said. "Get one toy for each child, go into the basement and stay there for at least six hours. I'm afraid there might be rather a lot of shooting. Stay down, stay safe. When you come out do not leave the city. Those empty patches of earth will become killing zones. Find friends deeper into the city, stay with them." A little nod of his head signalled his men to let the father go. Bemused and confused the family just stood around for a few moments. They were unsure of just what to do or say. They could hardly thank this heavily armed man who had just stormed into their home, but his mercy deserved some kind of gratitude. Jukka however, was just listening to the crying child. He wanted to comfort it, pat its head, and whisper that everything was going to be okay. For one reason or another he didn't or perhaps couldn't. Instead he just let the family hide in safety. He did not have the time to reflect on their futures, that was for the long hours of stillness between battles. Instead he just solemnly watched them as they hid.

Though this exchange had seemed like an eternity it had been less than three minutes. He could not afford to dawdle, the momentum of his advance had to be kept up. He knew that the rest of the battalion would be following up soon and he could not afford a log jam. Pointing to one of his men and then a nearby window facing onto the street Jukka simply ordered.

"Cover us, the rest of you, with me." He wasted no time in bursting out onto the street, hugging the walls to make him a harder target. Some way down the road he could make out the shapes of three men with rifles. One of them was stumbling out of a house, still putting on his helmet and checking his weapon. Their distinctive headgear clearly marked them out as members of the town watch. If they had not managed to lay hands upon their weapons Jukka would have given them the chance to surrender, but that was not a risk he could take. Bringing his weapon to his shoulder and falling to one knee with a speed and ease that showed years of drill, he did not hesitate to pull the trigger. Three short bursts, one for each man and the deed was done. Two of them fell fast, hard and without a word, the shots killing them instantly. The third, the one who had been running out of his house to join his comrades, stumbled forward for a few paces, dropping his rifle to the ground. He was little more than a slightly coloured shadow in the night but Jukka could see him grabbing at his own chest. Across the still night air he could hear coughing, spluttering, a desperate struggle for breath that choked down all screams and then a terrible silence, punctuated by a heavy thud as the man tripped over his own feet and fell to the ground, there to lie still.

Jukka had neither the time nor the desire to ruminate on this. Waving his comrades forward they stormed into the house across the street, fortunately empty. All along the road a good portion of the company charged to seize the next row of buildings, kicking down doors, smashing windows. The occasional gunshot could be heard as tiny pockets of resistance were encountered and swiftly overwhelmed. Soon the next street also fell at which point the company came to a sudden halt, awaiting the rest of the battalion. It was not long until Erling arrived, at the head of three other companies. Jukka, standing in the door way of a nearby house, did not wait long to start giving his orders.

"Major, B Company will remain on the ridge, keep the area secured for the gliders. C Company will remain here to hold a northern entrance to the town and act as a general reserve for the battalion. You will take E company and push towards the centre of Fouzen, there to link up with elements of second and third battalion as they come from the west." Suddenly shots erupted from several upstairs windows. Several men flinched but Jukka seemed to know that it was no threat and so seemingly did not react. The shots were coming from Nordlanders in secured buildings. They were firing on a foe that Jukka could not see from his position down on the ground, but he knew what it was. A few elements of the town watch or militia must have become more organised and rallied in the centre of town, even now launching a counter attack. This probe from the Gallians was likely premature, lacking the weight to dislodge a prepared company. But it was a reminder that the Nordlander's advantage of surprise was starting to wear out. Without any hint of concern Jukka simply stated the fact. "They are becoming more coordinated. We must move swiftly." Even as he said those words the sound of shots was piercing the air above him. "I will take A and D company and push east, to secure the eastern defences and bridge. You have your orders, good luck Major." His tone was simple, short and matter of fact. But his wish that Erling should have good luck was heartfelt and genuine. A slight pause and a softening in his tone conveyed as much. Erling cracked a confident smile, but every such smile in a battle was always a slight lie. Still, whilst no experienced soldier could ever be truly confident of victory or survival Erling was as certain as a veteran like him could be. That kind of certainty always bolstered the moral of the men. With a voice that conveyed his ,near, total confidence he replied.

"Good luck sir." And with that the two men parted ways.

Jukka, and his two companies, advanced east swiftly and without any real opposition. The odd lone soldier, isolated, confused and without instruction, were their only obstructions. The Nordlanders were moving through minor roads and back streets. But ahead of them, in the defences on the eastern edge of town, more and more Gallians were starting to gather, heading there by drill and waiting for a senior officer to properly coordinate them. When Jukka and his men were just a few houses away from the defences they could clearly see what lay in store for them. It was a single line trench, in a typical indented line, reminiscent of a castle's crenulations. Just beyond it lay the river that ran along the southern and eastern edges of Fouzen. Even as a simple single line defence it would have been formidable to attack it from the far bank. It was even reinforced with the occasional anti-tank gun and mortar emplacement for added power. But everything was pointing east, towards the Empire and down the road that it was assumed the Empire would arrive on. Jukka and his men had come from the west, behind them.

It would not take too long before a message reached the Gallians that the threat was from within the city, rather than outside. Jukka had to attack before then. There were lots of things he did not know. He did not know if the houses were occupied, he did not know if there were unseen threats round the corner, he did not know if reinforcements were coming. All he knew was that there was a trench in front of him, no one had spotted them, they had the element of surprise and time was not on his side. A few signals, a few orders, and his men knew what to do. Taking up positions the machine gun sections lay down and set up, ready to provide supporting fire. D company fell back slightly, to act as a reserve and to launch a secondary attack. Then, Jukka and the rest of A company charged. They did not go in, bayonets twilling and voices screaming. They wanted to be undetected for as long as possible, so although they ran they did so silently. The thump of boots, the rustle of webbing, the pants of heavy breathing, those were the only sounds made by the tide of Nordland ferocity that tore towards the Gallians. Had the enemy been silent they may have spotted it soon enough. But confused murmurs and loud conversations drowned out the Nordlanders until they were mere meters away.

It was only when one Gallian looked behind him, hoping to see an approaching offer, but instead seeing camouflaged paratroopers streaking straight for him, did the alarm go out.

"Enemy! Attack, attack from the rear!" His voice was full of surprise and confusion. Who were these strange attackers? They were not Gallians to be sure but not Imperials either and how did they get there? But every Gallian knew they could not afford to pose those questions, such hesitation would only lead to death. On hearing the alarm the Nordland machine guns opened up, trying to keep the flanks of the charge safe and supress as much of the trench as possible. Simultaneously the charging paratroopers let loose a fierce roar. As with all battle cries it was designed to intimidate the foe and instil zeal amongst the troops but the Nordlanders seemed to have turned it into an art form. They sounded like some ancient bear of legend, full of fury, born in ice but with a heart of fire. It was a posture, all such things were, but it was an effective one.

Suddenly things started happening very quickly. The front of the charge threw grenades, several of the devices exploded in the trench, screams, blood, smoke, the smell of burning. Then, Jukka and many of his men were in the trench, quickly spreading left and right to make room for the rest of the charge. Get in the trench as fast as you can and stay there, rule one of assaulting such a position. Jukka was heading right, in front of him were several of his men, tightly packed, surging onwards. Up ahead he could see the bridge extending out across the river, that was his primary objective. He had to secure both ends, but this was easier said than done. The trench ahead of him was crammed with Gallians. But on this narrow corridor it was only ever one man fighting one man. Nordland paratroopers were crack men. They had some of the best equipment, the best training, excellent leadership and stela moral. They were facing poorly coordinated militia troops, likely pressed into service in the past few days. Their training was old and rusty, probably barely refreshed since their compulsory schooling. Their equipment was inferior to that of the regular infantry and officers had yet to arrive on the scene. The bolt action rifles of the militia, not yet issued with the new semi-automatics, were no match for up close burst fire from a 34 PSR. The inevitable result was that Gallian after Gallian went down. When one Nordlander had to reload he instantly dropped to the ground, allowing his friend to fire over him, step over and continue the advance. It was highly effective and the paratroopers cut along the trench with ruthless efficiency.

But as efficient as it was it was not perfect. Occasionally a Gallian would get off a lucky shot and down a Norldander would go. The shots that hit his comrades seemed to ring louder in Jukka's ears, the cries of his own men always carried over the sounds of the battle, as did the heavy silence of the dead. On those occasions when he had to pass one of his own wounded men laying in the trench, he did so with a heavy and torn heart. Words such as.

"Keep pressure on it. You'll be okay, help is coming." Was all he could offer these men. If he paused to comfort them or treat them the advance would stop behind him. A log jam would form and all the Nordlanders would be vulnerable. So no matter how difficult it was he had to keep moving forward. By any measure the exchange of lives in this assault was hugely in Nordland's favour. But that was of little comfort when confronted with a dying man, dying man that you were responsible for.

The trench was almost cleared when a Gallain heavy machine gun opened up. Near the top of the trench, by the bridge, was a large concrete pillbox. Its firing slits allowed it to fire left right and forward. Until now light rifle fire had been coming from the small bunker, nothing a bit of suppression could not deal with. But now a full blow machine gun, likely previously aimed across the river, had been moved to fire down the length of the trench. This was one of the worst things that could have happened. Usually the indented design of these trenches prevented such disasters, as well as serving to create valuable cross fire. But the elevation of the pill box above the trench gave it an unparalleled firing position. Had Jukka spotted this before the charge he would have planned accordingly. But now he was improvising. Grabbing the paratrooper in front of him by the back of the jacket he pulled his comrade back and around a corner in the trench in the nick of time. Bullets smashed into the ground where the soldier had been a mere fraction of a second earlier. Squatting down Jukka and his comrade were in a small safe patch, but not everyone had been so lucky. As if by way of example the body of one of his men hit the ground hard, his torso, or what was left of it, sticking around the corner. The look on the Nordlander's face was not one of fear, but rather total surprise. A surprise that would now last forever. Judging by the grotesquely wounded chest it had been instant, some small comfort perhaps.

"P lance!" Bellowed Jukka. The P lance, like the PSR was a version of a more normal weapon, modified for paratroopers. The P lance was just like a normal anti-tank lance, but far smaller. A lance stood taller than a man but a P lance came up only to the elbow. The charge was roughly the same size, slightly broader and slightly shorter. The main space saving was in the vast shaft of the weapon. The P lance had a shaft barely a meter long and with none of the fancy guards of more standard models. Since the charge was near identical the weapon had roughly the same power. But it had much, much shorter range. Thankfully range was not an issue here it was only a few moments until the distinctive smoke trail of a lance shot tore towards the bunker. The hit was palpable, the boom shook Jukka's stomach. But the pillbox was only scratched. The shock however, had caused the bunker's occupants to stagger and recoil. This would last only moments, but moments was all Jukka needed.

Without a moment's hesitation, or warning, Jukka came out from around the corner and tore forwards, running as fast as his legs could carry him. A militia soldier burst out of his own hiding place to try and halt the charging Lieutenant Colonel, but all he received was a bust of bullets to the chest. He did not even break Jukka's stride. Seconds later Jukka reached the end of the trench and leaping up he managed to crouch beneath the bunkers firing slit. From inside he could hear men talking frantically.

"Get that machine gun back up, Stern you feed! Gregory, get reinforcements!" Stern would never reach the gun, Gregory would not get his reinforcements. Instead, Jukka pulled a grenade from his webbing and, after arming it, tossed it in through the firing slit. There was a moment's pause as Jukka braced himself, followed by a terrified cry and an explosion. This close, the detonation was so loud it left a ringing in Jukka's ears. It would keep on ringing for what must have been a solid minute and the rest of the world seemed muted. But Jukka had suffered from this before and he knew not to let it get the better of him. Acting on instinct he rose up and sprinted to the rear of the pillbox, charging in, ready to fire on anything that moved. But the only thing moving was a gently swaying machine gun, limp on its mounting.

Jukka could tell from the fading sound of the fighting that other elements of the trench attack had been faring similarly, the commander of D Company had the presence of mind to reposition himself and intercept a counter attack from the trenches on the other side of the road, before launching his own offensive against an already depleted force. The eastern side of Fouzen had been taken. The cost to the Nordlanders was light, but it was not free. The bridge was not defended on the other side, the key objective was secure. The rest of the regiment would secure the centre and the south with the same degree of comparative ease as the east. Then, when the rest of the brigade arrived in the next wave, a full sweep of Fouzen could be undertaken and the Nordlanders could brace for a counter attack. Medics were already seeing to his wounded, the brigade surgeons would land with the gliders. Victory belonged to Nordland. What little resistance remained was futile and minor. Soon the various headquarters would have to be set up, the civilians seen too, prisoners taken care of, supplies secured. But in this moment Jukka opted to engage in a little cavalier indulgence. Reaching into his top pocket he drew out his trusty pipe, filled it with tobacco, lit up and took a long, idle draw. Fouzen was his.


End file.
